The mirage of the many

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE ALTAR OF IDEALS . . . ..." I

II. A CITY OF LIGHT 22

Chapter I The Altar Of Ideals

" AND furthermore," added Faverall Markham, " you are scattering your talents to the four winds like so much chaff."

The steel manufacturer half-rose from his chair as he spoke, shoving the ash-tray angrily across the library table, where it stopped on the very edge.

" I am sorry my political opinions are so dis tasteful to you," answered Seebar; " I can re member when you seemed to find them highly amusing."

The tone was almost bitter.

" Yes, but there is a difference now. When a bear is a whelp it is a plaything — its antics are to be laughed at; when it is grown it is dangerous, and no longer to be humored. And I tell you, young man " — the words were edged like a steel tool — " I wouldn't have humored you, even as a cub, had I not known your father."

"And Dorothy?"

" She thinks as I do."

" So that is why she hasn't answered my let ters!"

" Very likely," said Markham uncompromis ingly. " Remember, young man," he added, " you are not the only one who can change."

" It seems not," came the retort.

Suddenly the stern, set lines in Markham's face relaxed. He came half-way around the huge mahogany table. Instinctively the other rose to meet him.

" Mr. Seebar, Alfred, my boy," he said; " why can't you see the folly of all this? It means absolute ruin to every business man, and, ulti mately, suffering for every misguided wretch that casts his ballot for your party ; yes, and for every one else, too, for that matter. If the Socialists win at the polls, what will be the outcome ? Ruin and chaos. And you will find that those who are your most enthusiastic adherents now will be the first to curse you then. On the other hand, should the Socialists fail to carry the election, you are crushed — destined to an obscure life for ever. Oh, but you were mad, — mad to make that fire-brand speech; madder still to accept that nomination of overseer for Chicago." The old manufacturer banged his clenched fist on the table. " But it isn't too late even now. Come, do the sane thing, the right thing, and withdraw your nomination. I can't bear to think the son of my old friend Seebar a leader of the rabble."

From above, the single, shaded lamp threw a disk of light upon the floor, and both were stand ing within its circle. Markham had placed his hand pleadingly on Seebar's arm. It was a strong face that Seebar looked into, — not the " reckless, passion-writ face of the Fourth Gen eration," to quote the Socialistic literature of the time, but the intelligent, aggressive countenance of a man who had planned and executed big things. It was of a mold that gave the lie to the carelessly coined, carelessly spoken saying of the day, that luxury and ease had undermined the manhood of the rich.

And so Seebar, himself square- jawed, clean cut, as erect and vigorous, and as pleasing to look upon, as a sturdy young sapling, could not help but admit to himself, as he noted the breadth of forehead beneath the locks of gray, and the large, wide-set eyes. The men who controlled the na tion's wealth were giants in their day too, even as their forefathers had been in the early days of the twentieth century.

Seebar had no intention of yielding, however, as he answered coolly and dispassionately :

" A rabble they may be, sir. The more reason why they need sincere leaders. We're going to place mankind on a higher level in this year of 1952. It's a mere matter of justice. That's what Socialism stands for. It's been a platitude for centuries that Capital is created by Labor and therefore belongs to Labor. You reproached me a moment ago with changing my opinions. It is true, a couple of years ago I looked at these things in a merely speculative, not in a practical, light. Since then I have seen things differently — seen things as they really are, and now I know that, whatever may be my personal interest or feeling, it is only right that I hold the position I have taken."

" A bit of the demagogue right here in our library; eh, Alfred?"

The open sneer brought a flush to the young politician's cheek. He bit his lips in a vexed way as if suppressing an angry reply.

" I see you refuse to understand me," he said at last. " It's too late, anyway, to argue this question," he added resignedly. " But if I had known you would feel as strongly as this, I believe I should not have come here to-night. A little over a month ago, when I was here last, you scouted all possibility of the Socialists' carrying the election. That was before the National Convention had been held at the Stadium. Now, with the election but two months away, you know what the moneyed men have been doing in La Salle Street. You know what they are doing there to-night. They are winding up their business affairs. Some of them are even now making their last shipments of gold out of the country, preparatory to following, themselves.

" Now I know, of course, what effect this campaign has had upon business. There is no bottom to prices. Farm-lands, city real estate, railroad stocks — all are selling for a song — and always in gold and silver. And I understand, Mr. Markham, you have been plunging, using all available cash to control certain industries, so that if the Individualists should weather the storm you would be, perhaps, the most powerful financier in the country. But the Individualists won't weather the storm. And at your age and with your beliefs, frankly, I think the new regime will be, for you, intolerable.

" I haven't seen you since the nomination, partly because I haven't had time in this campaign, and for another reason also. But to-night I thought I must come here and urge you to con sider your daughter's welfare as well as your own. If you can still secure enough ready money to support yourself abroad, don't throw it away in sheer wild-cat speculation, for that's what the buying of all securities now means." The young man broke off abruptly, but the older man was quick to answer.

" And after affiliating yourself with this band of thieves, this rabble of brigands, you have the audacity to come here and advise me what to do?"

" Yes," answered Seebar, " I have." His features had taken on an expression of resolution that unmistakably showed it was habitual. Quite plainly he was holding his temper in leash, for his eyes were flashing dangerously.

With anger and irritation in every stride, Mr. Markham began to pace up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped and touched a button on the wall, flooding the room with light. Then he flung himself once more into the depths of his chair.

" Sit down," he commanded imperatively, pointing to Seebar's chair. He raised the lid of a box that stood on the table, and tendered the younger man a cigar. " We must come to an understanding on this miserable affair, if pos sible, though it takes all night," he said decisively.

" Thank you," said Seebar. The question of Dorothy was included in the father's phrase.

" Now," went on Mr. Markham, angrily blow ing little palpitating whiffs of smoke between his words; " I'll concede every statement you've made regarding the political situation, and my own position, as well. A month ago I believed we could swing the election in spite of the fact that the Individualists — your party calls them Capitalists — were divided. Then, as you well know, the Republican and Democratic leaders, becoming alarmed, united on one man. That fact has shaken my confidence — shaken it beyond repair. Like every one else, I have counted on the extraordinary solidarity of the country vote. Of course the population of the cities is greater than that of the rural districts, — has been greater in fact, since 1940 — but then while nearly every farmer is an Anti-Socialist, the converse — that nearly every city dweller is an Anti-Individualist, is by no means the fact. With the rural vote supported by a portion of the city vote, I did think we could squeeze through, for it was gen erally conceded that the Democratic nominee would scarcely get enough votes to lessen ma terially the Republican plurality. Then came the alarm. The Individualists felt that they could not even spare these few votes. You doubtless know better than I do the details of how the leaders of the two parties got together and united their followers under the name of the Individ ualist party. Until then, I had confidence, and I plunged heavily, as you were informed, on that expectation. God only knows what is to become of my daughter when the ' Great Change,' as you io The Mirage of the Many

people are fond of calling it, really does come. And all of us realize that a grand crash is cer tainly coming. The Constitution has been re peatedly tampered with in the last two years — so that practically anything can be done from day to day in the way of legislation. We Individual ists, as you well know, fought, and fought hard, the initiative and referendum, first as a State, then as a Federal, act. Now the Constitution is as flexible as a municipal ordinance. At this election in November, by popular vote you simultaneously alter the Constitution and elect your officers in accordance with the change.

" I have tied up every dollar I could lay hands on, so you see I could not leave the country even if I wished. I am telling you exactly how I'm situated, not because I think you can help me, but just to give you an idea of the mischief you have helped create."

Their eyes met, but Seebar did not flinch. : ' You are a young man of most unusual ability," continued Mr. Markham; "you would have made a mark in statesmanship had you not deserted your own party. In the election of 1948 the Socialists showed an alarming strength. Now in 1952, when they seem destined to sweep everything before them, many of the natural supporters of the present system, such as you, strengthen the opposition enormously by going over into their ranks as candidates for high political office. Why, if you could have put half the fire into a speech in support of Individualism that you put into that famous speech in the Convention, which brought you your nomination, thousands upon thousands of votes would now be saved to us. When men of talent, born into our class, our natural defenders, desert us, where are we to turn? "

He seemed for an instant to hesitate, then looked up sharply.

" Considering all these things, Alfred, I can not see that you have any right, unless you are willing to withdraw your candidacy, to expect to marry into my family."

Mr. Markham paused; his abrupt conclusion was in the nature of a bomb, but the explosion was not unexpected.

" Why do you wish me thus to dishonor my self and my love for your daughter?" asked Seebar.

He was sitting upright, his strong hands grasping the arms of his chair till the veins swelled, his eyes flashing, his face surmounted by an angry flush. Suddenly his words came in a flood :

" You wouldn't have Dorothy marry a cur, — a whining, whimpering coward who had sold his honor just for her love, would you? You speak as if I could change principles and the enthusiasm for them just as easily as I might put on or off a suit of clothes. What sort of a man do you suppose I am, anyway ? "

Both men again rose. Anger was blazing in Seebar's eyes, but Markham was cold.

" I wouldn't ask you to quit that mob of in sane revolutionists," said the manufacturer, " if

I thought you were thoroughly in earnest. You may think you are, but you are not. You have taken up Socialism because its high-sounding philosophy appealed to you. If you hadn't made that incendiary speech in the Convention you would have cooled down by this time. I ask you to be reasonable; I ask you not to do that for which hereafter you will have the keenest regret, and you become red with rage. I do not ask that you even support the Individualists. But what I do ask is that you withdraw your candidacy. Such a course would show that you really do love my daughter, and, moreover, that you have some respect for my opinions and feel ings."

" But, Mr. Markham, you are asking me to make a sacrifice that no man worthy of the name would make."

" In that event you know the alternative." " Oh, father, is it so bad as that ? " In the door-way, the lights in the hall shining through the loose strands of her hair in a soft golden glow, stood Dorothy Markham. One arm, the loose wide sleeve of which had slipped back, was raised above her head, and rested against the casing. She was dressed in some soft, reddish stuff that accentuated the lines of her figure. As she stood thus, unconscious of the free, graceful attitude she had assumed, her eyes were alive with a look of anxiety. As the two men turned toward her, she hurried across the room to her father, and threw her arms about his neck.

" Father, don't be so hard," she pleaded.

" Dorothy, child, what am I to do ? Here is a man who is striking relentlessly at the whole social fabric. He desires to bring down every thing in one grand crash. His party is crying out for the abolition of Capital, personal liberty, everything, in fact, that we prize as civilization. And worst of all he doesn't really believe in the accursed stuff himself. He took it up as a whim; he thinks he is sincere, but he is not. When a man acts of set purpose as a fanatic, do you think for a moment I can make him welcome in this house ? "

Seebar had stepped to the window and was looking out into the night. Over Lake Michigan a waning moon was tossing through rough clouds. A breeze was blowing from the east, and the waters of the lake could be heard boom ing against the break-water. Through the open window the summer air sifted, just pleasantly warm.

There was a battle going on in Seebar's soul, — a battle which he hardly dared to acknowledge to himself. Now for the first time did he begin to realize just how much his affiliation with the Socialist party was going to cost him. For social position he cared nothing; and he was likewise willing to forego all opportunities to acquire wealth. But when loyalty to his political prin ciples meant, as he could plainly see now, the ultimate sacrifice of love, the terrible gulf that suddenly opened at his feet made him draw back aghast. He had not anticipated this. In the past few months he had thrown himself into the game with the fiery zeal of an idealist. So en grossed had he been that for several weeks past he had seen nothing of his friends, the Markhams.

Now, on this night, a brief respite had come, and he had run out to Millionaires' Row along the Sheridan Drive. Then Mr. Markham's wrath had burst upon him for his active part in the campaign. The steel manufacturer had very plainly indicated how his course had all but destroyed not only his own, but his daughter's regard.

It was a terrible temptation, and while he wrestled with it, he found his struggle doubly hard, for suddenly he found Dorothy at his side, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

" I didn't suppose it was so serious," she said. " Alfred, won't you do this to please me ? "

The eyes looked very large and blue and earnest, fringed with heavy dark lashes.

" It isn't as if you really believed in all this, is it, dear?" she went on. " It's just your am bition — forgive me for saying so — but isn't it? If you really love me — you would — you would be willing to give up this — this Socialism, wouldn't you?"

She asked her question with almost the simple confidence of a child. She put it as if it would be a denial of his love to refuse. And as he looked into her eyes, he was looking beyond, into a future that was gloomy and sunless. If only she could realize what it all meant !

" You don't know what you are asking, child," he answered. " I would cut off my right hand if it would avail you anything, but I can't do this thing: I simply can't betray myself."

" Not for me ? " she whispered softly.

The expression in his eyes became a look of positive anguish.

Dorothy turned to her father.

" Perhaps " she began, hesitatingly.

Comprehendingly he moved toward the door. On the threshold he paused, and seemed about to say something more; then, apparently recon sidering, he slowly passed out into the hall.

" Alfred," said Dorothy, placing a small hand on each of his broad shoulders, " do you re member that night in the springtime, out there under the trees, when you said you loved me? "

Her eyes were looking straight up into his, — serious and earnest and girlish.

" Yes," he answered very low. The tension of features had relaxed, but the habitual firmness of the mouth was still there.

" Well, why have you changed ? What have I done to make you regret that night?"

" Dorothy ! I haven't changed ! Why do you say that?"

" Because," she replied, with a touch of the didactic, " a man, if he really loves a woman, does what she asks of him without question. You said a moment ago that you could not be tray yourself. That's just a phrase — out of a book. If you really love me you will sacrifice anything, everything for me. I would for you.

But I'm not asking you to betray yourself. It's neither duty nor honor that binds you to these Socialists. It's vanity. You don't recognize it as such, but it is. It isn't because the Socialists are going to make us poor that I want you to give this up, but because I want to feel that you love me. Don't you, can't you see ? "

He was silent.

"Why don't you answer?"

" I can't say that I do see, dear," he replied at last with slow reluctance.

Her hand slipped from his shoulder.

" It wasn't always so hard for you to under stand."

She paused as if awaiting an answer. As none came she continued, speaking almost as if to herself : " Then perhaps it is best to do as fa ther says."

She took a step toward the door. Seebar wheeled about, his face as white as paper.

" Don't, don't go," he implored, his voice trembling, " give me a moment, only a moment."

It was very quiet there in the library. Some where about the house a door closed with a far-away distant sound; the clock ticked in slow, methodical rhythm; a stray gust of the lake breeze whistled low, as it was sucked into a corner of the building, then whisked against the screen in the window, with a soft, brushing sound, and finally sighed itself into nothingness in the distance.

Seebar broke the silence by blurting out, "If you had ambitions, too, Dorothy, you would understand."

"Ambitions! If I — had ambitions! Alfred, I am not a child. My years of art study were not a pastime, — my professional work was not exactly the fad of a rich man's daughter. A woman's ambitions are mostly toys, I know, to be thrown away at marriage. But yes, I, too, would have thrown them away gladly for the love of a man — a man such as I thought you to be, Alfred."

Her voice caught.

Seebar tossed his arms in a despairing gesture. " Don't mind my words, Dorothy, I scarcely know what I am saying. You should know that I would not hurt you intentionally for worlds."

He put his hands on her shoulders and at tempted to draw her toward him. She was sob bing now.

" No, no ! " she exclaimed, pushing him away.

"Dorothy, dear, won't you please listen?"

" Not to-night, not to-night, please, please don't. Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps next week, but not now, oh, not now ! "

Faverall Markham re-entered the room pres ently. He found Dorothy seated on the sofa, with averted face, while Seebar was standing at the window, looking out into the gloom.

The young man turned and held out his hand to Markham. " I — I think I'll bid you good-night," he said.

Chapter II A City Of Light

TT was the third day of November — election day. Seebar had taken a hurried supper at a nearby cafe and then had quickly returned to his offices in the Chamber of Trade Building. There was little time for such mere trifles as bodily nourishment; the returns of the election were coming in.

Those several weeks following the night of his call at the Markhams' had been a period of fatiguing labor. His voice had been in every de liberative council, his determination, his energy, his enthusiasm had been felt in the arrangement of the many details of the campaign. Speeches, too, he had made by the score, and he was re garded as a tower of strength by people and party leaders alike.

Only a few months back an obscure lawyer, his brilliant, passionate speech in the Socialist Na tional Convention had carried the delegates off their feet. They had instantly recognized in him a man for their purpose — a man young, fiery, magnetic, filled with the enthusiasm of high ideals, steeped in the principles of Socialism, able to present those principles with convincing, com pelling force. Moreover, he was a fighter, bold and dauntless; no wonder he was regarded as a priceless acquisition to the cause.

Never in all these weeks had his faith wavered, no, not for a single instant. His way had been as clear and certain, as sure, as a white, hard road gleaming in sunlight.

Up to the present, strangely enough, the break ing off of his relations with Dorothy Markham had been scarcely felt by him, after the first keen pain of that night. His interests had. been too single, too concentrated in the cause he cham pioned. His minutes, his very seconds had been too fully occupied for him to have leisure at his disposal to reflect upon and realize in any degree the consequences of his estrangement from her.

Besides, he had hopes in abundance, — rich, roseate hopes. The dawn, the magnificent dawn, such as never yet had been seen by man, but only dreamed of, was at hand. With the inauguration of the new conditions, he felt that the men of Markham's stamp, after the first anger and despair had passed, would be inevitably recon ciled. And as for Dorothy, he felt that with the readjustment of society, gradually her love for him would return. He had been sure of that.

He picked up a letter from his desk. It had remained unopened since the afternoon mail. He knew from the postmark that it was from his uncle, Richard Tompkins, who lived on a small farm some thirty miles beyond the city's limits.

MY DEAR ALFRED : —

I have not concerned myself as much about this Socialism as perhaps I should have done, but it has indeed given me a feeling of pride that you should have been chosen as one of the big leaders.

It never occurred to me, however, till quite recently what might be the result should your party be victorious. All my neighbors declare that things will not be well for us farmers. They say that there will be a new apportionment of land ; that my little farm will become still smaller, or else that it will be absorbed with others and managed on the basis of the great corporate system of commerce and manufacturing. In either event, the result does not appear promising, for will not the new arrangement seriously interfere with my income, small as it is now?

I am, as you know, in my sixty-fifth year ; I have taken little interest for some time in politics, being a quiet and domestic sort of man. These things coming at my time of life worry me a bit. How ever, I trust that all will be well. But you know that the population of the cities, at least I am told so, can outvote that of the country, and perhaps the interests here in the country differ from those of you people in the cities.

I am writing this not to trouble you, but to relieve my own conscience. Much as I hate to do it for your sake, I feel that I shall be compelled to vote the way my neighbors will to-morrow, that is, of course, for the Individualists.

Now, forgive me for the timid fears of an old man. I feel that I must do my duty by my neigh bors, but still wish that you may win.

I hope that you may be able to visit us for a few hours, at least, after the election.

Well, good-by, now, my boy. With best wishes and luck, Your loving Uncle,

RICHARD TOMPKINS.

Martha sends her love. She also tells me to say that she will send some more of her mince pies soon, the kind you used to like so well.

A pang of regret, almost of accusation, gripped Seebar for the moment. Good, kind old Uncle Dick ! He had been a father, more than a father to him. He had been father and uncle and friend, all in one. In days gone by Uncle Dick had money — not a great deal, still a surplus over and above his wants. It was due to him solely that Seebar had been able to go through college. Seebar's memory went back to that night his father had come home from the stock exchange, a broken man, — the fortune of a life-time's labor gone almost in a flash.

Brain fever had followed, and in his delirium the poor harried financier had fought over again the terrible agonizing last few days he had gone through before the actual crash came. And he had raved, too, about Alfred's mother, dead then some years.

When the end came, Uncle Dick was at the boy's side to comfort him. Yes, when he thought it all over, Uncle Dick had done a vast deal for him.

What if — and the thin wedge of doubt found its opening — what if the great Socialist program should not work out successfully, and he should thus have helped to bring nothing but ruin as a reward for all his uncle's kindness ?

Somehow, this apparently slight incident of the letter singularly disturbed him. Perhaps it was the reaction after days and weeks of nervous strenuousness and excitement, or perhaps it was that the real import of the Great Change to a multitude of people was for the first time really driven home to him.

When worried or perplexed, Seebar was wont to ascend to the tower of the building, ninetythree stories above the street, and lean upon the railing of the circular balcony, with the air beat ing about his head, clarifying his thoughts. To night he went up to this tower.

Chicago, the hugest city in the world, stretched, a vast blur of light, to an incredibly distant horizon — north, west, south — a red en compassing halo, extending to the farthest reaches of vision. Lights ! lights ! lights ! Where did they begin? Where did they cease? They were flung out into space, seemingly interminably, like one all-embracing milky way. Even where Seebar stood, a wan radiance, more illuminating than the star-light, was diffused. The calm lights of the sky paled in comparison with the elusive but insistent glow that pressed upward from the earth.

As his glance fell straight downward, Seebar saw, far, far below, bands of white and green lights, in segments, pass in rapid succession. These he knew to be the trains of the mono-rail way, running on an elevated structure high above the level of the streets. As he watched, train after train swung round a double curve, the red and green lights of each, for the twinkling of an eye, pricking out a great letter S, which, even as it formed, dissolved as the train cleared the curve.

Overhead, occasionally, a freight-laden air ship, distinguishable by its gleaming yellow sidelamps, passed swiftly, its searchlight cutting a path ahead through the darkness; sometimes throwing an oblique shaft downward upon the city.

Westward, three squares away, rose a row of needle-like structures, every window of each a rectangle of light. As he shifted his eyes to a similar row to the south, the buildings, a mass of multiplied lights, seemed, with the turning of the head, to rush skyward. To the east, over a vast wall of sky-scrapers, a reddish glow lay, gradually dissolving into the whiter light around. These were the lights along the Lake Front and Michigan Avenue, — the latter the great theatre and restaurant district of Chicago. Far out, over the waters of Lake Michigan hung this glow; then still farther away, beyond, lay that blackest of black walls, — always, even on the fairest of nights, suggestive of a vast bank of storm-bearing mist, just emerging above the horizon, where sky and water met, — the one really dark space in the vast reaches of sky and city and water.